


How Do You Solve...

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:49:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Sherlock Season 3, The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three.</p><p>This may not be proper canon for me, but it's not really a prediction. It is a wish. </p><p>Greg is there for the waltz between John and Mary, and the start of the next dance. You can just see him over John's shoulder when he's talking about Mrs Hudson seeing Sherlock teaching him to dance. But that's it. By the time Sherlock is looking around for someone to talk to, Greg's gone. Where'd he go? Why? And why was Mycroft so insistent that he wouldn't go to the party himself? Could it be that he didn't trust himself to be around Greg in front of people without giving himself away in front of Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Do You Solve...

Greg kicked the door closed a little harder than he meant to, but even as he hissed in a breath and winced, he could tell it was all right. The lamp was on in the entry, and while he couldn’t see any others, he could feel that there would be at least one other lamp on. He scuffed his shoes against the rug out of habit before beginning his search.

Poking his head into the study, his eyebrows went up and his face relaxed. “Thought you’d be in bed,” he said, crossing to bend down and drop a kiss on the man’s head before falling into the chair across from him.

“You’re early,” Mycroft countered. His eyes flicked over Greg before sliding back to the file on his lap and wafting the cover closed. “Murder, then?”

Greg’s lips thinned, and he bit his cheek for a moment before answering. “See, that’s what I don’t get. He kept us all trapped at the dinner tables for about half an hour while he slowly fell apart in front of us.”

“Messy death, then?” 

Greg shook his head. “No. And he didn’t die. Strictly speaking, it was assault with a deadly weapon, but that’s not what I mean.”

Mycroft frowned, raising his chin, asking without saying a word.

“Nah, I mean Sherlock. Everybody teases him about being a drama queen, but he isn’t, really, is he? He’s always impatient when he needs to explain things. And he doesn’t do any of that ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here’ rubbish, either. He never hangs around preening, either. He cackles a bit when he works something out, but once he’s figured it out, he’s impatient to get on to the next puzzle.”

“What did he do that was so different?” Mycroft asked.

Greg glanced at him, then stopped and lifted his finger, shaking it once at Mycroft. “See that’s more your thing. You’ll play stupid and pretend you’re not following. Sherlock doesn’t do that. He always wants to be four miles ahead, and wants everyone to know it. You already know what happened. So what’s wrong with him?”

“Something’s wrong with Sherlock?” Mycroft said, frowning again, but this time with his full attention on Greg. “What happened?”

“He sort of lost it when he stood up to do his speech. Like he was having some sort of seizure. He just...froze. And I’ve seen him in court, and in front of cameras, and he’s stiff, but he doesn’t freeze.”

“I spoke to him on the phone just before the meal,” Mycroft said. “I...didn’t realise.” He rubbed his lip thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the cold fireplace.

“Once he got going, though, he went manic. He pulled it together for a bit, said some really nice stuff about John. Sounded a bit like he was quoting, but John was really touched. But then he had us about to toast, and went a bit funny. In hindsight I can see he was stalling while he tried to work out the murder, but it wasn’t right.” Greg trailed off, shaking his head.

“Manic. So you think he’s—”

“Yeah, I think he might be.” Greg met Mycroft’s eyes briefly. “Sorry. I guess we’re all a bit out of practise.”

Mycroft lifted two fingers, waving the apology aside. “That was a risk. We knew that. I thought that maybe the familiar atmosphere of Baker Street would be enough, even without John. It appears not.”

“You want me to go over there and search the place?” Greg asked, sitting forward in his chair, preparing to stand.

“No, no, don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be back there by now.”

“No he won’t,” Greg countered with a weak laugh. “It’s John’s wedding day. He had a room booked—”

Mycroft lowered his chin, raising his eyebrows and giving Greg a look. “Really, Greg.”

“No, he did! He...I saw him…” Greg trailed off, thinking. “He didn’t have a case. He didn’t bloody have a case. I saw him come in already dressed, and I just assumed that he’d dressed _there._ But he must’ve dressed in Baker Street before he came.” Greg thumped the arm of his chair, then flopped back in it, slouching, running his fingers over his forehead. “Okay. So if he’s using again, he’ll have a supplier. I’ve kept tabs on all the dealers he used before, and I don’t think any of them would be willing to risk it. They’re too scared, now he’s all famous and I’ve put the fear of God into them.”

“Too obvious. No.”

“I can go around there in the morning with a proper drugs squad. We can have him in. You could clear it.”

“No, not this time. This time I think I’ll have to approach him.”

Greg snorted, not sure if Mycroft was even serious. “What, you? How’s that gonna work? He never listens to you.”

“He does. Sometimes. As long as I couch things properly.”

“What, like you did with John?”

“John kept him clean longer than either of us managed before. Even got him to quit smoking.”

Greg looked away, his eyes wide for just a moment before he shook his head. “John’s married, now. Not sure he’s in any position to keep an eye on him. What’s he going to do, move back into Baker Street and bring Mary?”

“No. John isn’t an option, this time. It has to be me.”

“Look, no offense, but I seem to recall recovering a flash drive of yours from the bottom of a swimming pool once. And remember what happened with Irene.”

Mycroft shook his head, his face crinkling briefly in distaste as he waved this aside. “Yes, yes. I don’t intend to try anything of the sort, this time.” Mycroft stilled, flapping one hand off the arm of his chair briefly. “Can’t be anything like that. Asking does no good. Nor does telling.” He fell silent, and Greg waited for a moment, watching as the hands came up and aligned in front of his lips, fingertips together. “Something different, this time.”

Greg studied him, watching the lids of his eyes lower, then drift closed, his hands staying poised in front of his face. Greg sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Mycroft was thinking. Greg would check on him in the morning to see if he’d moved. If he was lucky, he’d wake up next to the man, but problems involving Sherlock tended to take a bit longer to untangle. Greg set his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder briefly as he passed, knowing better than to try to speak to him when he was like this, and plodded up to bed.

 


End file.
